May the Odds be Ever in Your Favor
by Nolesr1
Summary: 7 years have passed since the Mockingjay Rebellion and the Capitol's victory. Now, the consequences of the Rebellion are dire: instead of the original 2 Tributes, there are now 4. follow in the steps in one Tribute as she watches the games play out: the forging and destruction of alliances as well as the power struggles and love triangles. Art by Rhaylee
1. Chapter 1

Hunger Games OC information sheet:

Name:

Age:

Family:

Appearance:

Height:

Outfit:

Attitude:

Characteristics:

Weapon of choice:

Strengths:

Weaknesses (must be more than 2):

District (districts 1-11):

Why he/she should live (this may be odd, but work with me here):


	2. The Pains of Being Me

The Pains of Being Me

My arms are on fire.

That's the first thing I notice after standing on my hands for 5 minutes. I can feel the muscles in my arm tremble and I stand-upside down- in complete astonishment of the fact that I haven't fallen on my butt yet In front of everyone.

"Psyche!" Coach Thistle snaps, her usual muddy brown eyes flashing dangerously, "Is that the best you can do? I've seen primary school aged children stand on their hands longer!"

Yeah, I'm tempted to tell her, on the playground and as a game. Not as a training exercise on a balancing beam where, if I fall, I run the risk of humiliating myself in front of all my classmates or breaking my spine; I'm not sure which is worse.

I don't tell her this for two reasons: reason one- she scares me; reason two- I can't get the words out. As of this point, my main concern is staying where I am without an incident. I ignore the whispers of the people- my peers-around me, no doubt taking bets on how long I'll stay like this; how long I _can_ stay like this. Evidently, there's a difference. Taking in a deep breath, I feel my legs lean dangerously to one side, a sure sign that I'm losing my balance. I can feel the sweat coating my forehead, hear the panicked beating of my own heart against my chest, and I feel the slow trail of sweat making its way towards my temples.

_Come on_, I chant to myself, _come on._

It works-for about a minute until my arms realize that they don't want to hold the weight of my whole body on their stick thin frames. Before I know it, I feel my body plummet forward, my shoulders somehow managing to hit the edge of the beam and my entire weight falling on my tail bone. Or, as I like to call it, my extended butt bone. I groan, ignoring the pain in both my butt and shoulders and slowly rise to my feet; Coach Thistle is looking at me with an expression akin to disgust and, out of the corners of my eyes, I see my ever-loyal classmates handing each other whatever they bet, be it money (God only knows how they got it), or chore tickets (most likely), or just anything of any value they had with them at this time. The part of me that has had the familiar chant of _don't get distracted by anything _ingrained In her since birth_, _feels nothing for the exchange, while the other part of me (the part that gets me in trouble more times than I care to count) can't help but feel cheated: Come on! Half of that earning belongs to me! By some miracle, I manage to ignore the second part of my mind and focus purely on Coach Thistle. The second I do, however, I just want to crawl in a hole and die. Unfortunately for the tough tooth-and-nail district 2, doing such a thing as that would be considered a weakness and is therefore was frowned upon. Even though it almost physically hurts, I match Coach's gaze stare for stare and refuse to budge: a sign of strength, but also an extremely volatile movement; like staring down a wolf which would only get you killed.

"What," she begins, her voice quiet and cold; a dangerous sign. "Was that? 'Cause that sure wasn't balancing." I open my mouth to reply before realizing that that was supposed to be a rhetorical question; I snap my mouth shut and stand tall, like a good little soldier I will one day be. She continues to glare at me, the little mole on her chin trembling and her lips pressed together in a hard line. She leans closer to me and I can now see the faint outline of a mustache that she could one day have. Charming. "Run," she whispers, her voice still dangerous, "Run around the gym for about 10 minutes and then you can talk to me." I salute her, and then turn heel and run, the familiar sensation of movement feeling amazing in my legs; balancing? Impossible. Running? A release. I bury the urge to smile, knowing that Coach would take that as an Insult or me being a smart-ass.

Knowing her, she would assume both.

Then again, knowing _me, _it _would_ be both.

I hear Coach shouting at some poor kid, probably chewing them out for not showing her the 'proper respect.' I remember my older classmates telling me how, before the rebellion led by the Mockingjay, the Coaches were far less… Volatile. You could actually joke around with them. Sure, they were still hard on kids, but that was only because they wanted all their students to be prepared. Prepared for what, you might ask?

The Hunger Games.

To win the Games brings glory to your District, to lose… well, you get nothing. Hardly even a proper burial. After the Rebellion, however, with District 12 in ruins and the rebels in question either dead or fleeing, the Capital decided that the Districts had been given too much leeway, thereby making sure that people like Coach Thistle beat any kind of rebellion or insurrection out of their pupils. And, from what I've heard, they literally did beat it out of their kids. I shuddered, and then picked up the pace, my legs feeling like they were on fire and my breath coming out evenly; this was _my_ release, _my_ escape, and _no one_ could take this from me. I don't know how long I ran, but I _did_ know that the only thing that stopped me was the sudden appearance of a foot within my line of sight, which, because of my amazing skill and prowess, I realized _that_ a little too late. I tripped, for the second time in a single day (God, this has _got_ to be some new record or something) and landed on my hands, my skin tearing up as it made contact with the ground.

"Oomph," I muttered unconsciously, feeling the sudden ache of every injury I received today; this has been such a fun day! Not. Pushing myself to my knees, I turn and glare at the idiots over my shoulder, all of which who are snickering like something funny just happened. Oh wait. Something funny did just happen; the Grunt fell on her face!

"The hell was that about?" I demand, glaring at the idiots, "What? Jealous that little 'ole me can _still_ kick you're asses at running?" that wiped the stupid smirks right off their faces. One of them, a guy named Sax, stepped forward to spit on the ground next to me.

"Watch yourself you Crazy little-"

"Ohh," I interrupted casually, still keeping my place on the ground, "'Crazy' that's a new one; I've only heard it about _three dozen times_ within the last, mmmm, let's say, hour!" I snort and then roll my eyes at Sax, watching as his face slowly turns an unattractive shade of red. He glances over his shoulder to Coach Thistle, who's too preoccupied with yelling at another kid to notice us, and then turns back to me and kicks my side. I gasp, then curl up within myself in an attempt to protect what's left of my throbbing side.

"Come on guys," a familiar voice calls from somewhere to my side; I can't see who it is as I am a bit preoccupied with the fire now licking my ribs, "leave her alone before Coach catches you!"

"Yeah, yeah," Sax mutters. Still gasping, I slowly force myself back to my knees, and wearily push myself to my feet, hoping that one of them doesn't suddenly become overwhelmed with the idea of kicking me again. Holding my side, I glare at Sax, who merely shrugs and then turns to walk away, his cronies following his lead and walking away. Sax suddenly pauses and turns back to face me,

"You better watch yourself _Psycho _or you're gonna wind up with a dagger in your back."

"Sax!" The voice from before calls, this time sounding sharper, "Come _on_!

"I'm coming Tatum!" Sax calls over his shoulder. He made to leave, but then paused and turned to face me one last time, a disgusted sneer on his face, "you're an insult to this District, you know that?"

With that, he turned and then ran back to Tatum, his little chicken legs somehow managing to keep all his weight off of the ground. I glare at his back, temporarily playing with the idea of taking one of those pretty little daggers hanging on the back walling and playing target practice with his back. I quickly dislodge that idea: I'd get in too much trouble and there are too many witnesses. Sighing, I crouch down, my hands flat on the floor, in an attempt to control my anger; my parents and older brother believe it to be a form of strength; however, _I_ think it's a means to show weakness: letting your enemy get under your skin so that they can manipulate you? Isn't that what we're taught _not_ to do in District 2? With my anger slowly draining, I rise to my feet, the back of my neck prickling in a way that tells me someone is watching me. I casually stretch my arms behind my neck and begin to let my gaze drift through the gym; my eyes suddenly meet a pair of calculating, dark green eyes and I stare her down; Tatum Duce, a 16 year-old girl around my age who's deadly when it comes throwing axes. We had to spar once and I learned something about her: she has a conscience. A dangerous thing to have this close to the Reaping. In an attempt at being friendly, I raise my hand in greeting, only to be met with another cold stare. I lower my hand and watch as she turns to pick up an axe, swings it easily in her hand, and then throws it, the muscle in her back tensing up and tightening with the effort.

Her axe lands perfectly in the center of the target, about 5 feet away.

I could never do that.

In an un-District 2-like way, I hope I never get Reaped.


	3. Home-What a Joke

Home- what a joke

When I got home that day everything was as it should be: my parents were ignoring me and arguing while my older brother was in the adjoining building attached to our home, playing with knives and fire. I drop my bag on the nearest chair, shooting the maid in service a hand wave.

"Hey Bernetta, what are my parents arguing about this time?" she shrugged, still silent as always. See, Bernetta's an Avox; a person who took part in the Mockingjay Rebellion a couple of years ago, Bernetta was one of the people who were captured by the Capitol and had her tongue cut out as punishment. She came to work for my family when I was still too young to count and has been with us forever. When I was younger, I always thought that my parents had taken Bernetta in out of kindness; now I realize that _that_ word was, and is, as foreign to them as the word 'peace' is to me. "Anything new this time? Or is it just the same old, same old?" again, Bernetta shrugged before turning back to dust some more furniture. "Nice talking to you to you," I muttered, somewhat snappishly. Isn't it awesome where the one person you enjoy talking to is the one person that can't talk back? God I have no life.

"-and I can't believe what you're insinuating!" my mother told-well, screamed really-at, who I'm guessing, is my father.

"Well what else am I supposed to think?" my father snapped back, and although I can't see him, I can imagine the vein popping up vividly in his temples. "For God's sake Cassandra, they saw you with him and-"

"Oh! And I suppose you just automatically assume that because someone else saw it then it _must_ be true. Is that it?!"

"As much as I love you _darling _you're not exactly known for your fidelity!"

"Ha! That's rich coming from you! Kettle, meet pot!"

"Why you-"

"Mom," I called, wondering if it was at all possible for me to curve their argument. It never happened before but, hey, it could work. Maybe. "Dad, I'm home!" neither of them answered and I was left standing in the foyer like an idiot. It was odd that I had spent the last 15 years of my life in this building and it was still as cold as it always was. I didn't feel like a member of this household; more like a visitor. My father, a tall, well-built man stormed out of the room-the _living room_, of all places- looking like death had warmed over.

"So," I began as he stormed up to me, "how's-" I didn't even get to finish the statement before he stormed out past me and slammed the door with a loud, resounding _snap_ from behind me. I almost flinched at the slamming of the door but I quickly covered the reaction; even though I was alone, _I_ was fully aware of my reactions and _I_ didn't want to live with any signs of weakness. Not long after-5, maybe 10 minutes later-my mother walked out, looking for all the world like a wasn't because of how she looked-I had inherited her reddish-blonde, curly head of hair, light golden brown eyes, and obnoxiously slight frame- but it was because of her bearings: she held herself like a queen before peasants, a lady before serfs. Nobility among the poor. More than once I've found myself jealous of that; why couldn't I be more like that?

"Hey mom," I began as she continued to walk towards the steps that led to the upper floors in the house, "What was that-"

"I'm not in the mood for idle chat right now Psyche," mom snapped out, her hair resembling fire as she walked right in front of an open window, "now, if you'll excuse me," and, with that, she calmly walked up the steps, not at all seeming like she had just gotten out of a screaming match with her husband. "Bernetta! Come here!" my mother called suddenly, her voice echoing off of the surrounding walls. Bernetta, who had still been dusting, glanced up the stairs, made an exhausted face, but obliged, climbing the stairs at a rate I associated with a death march to a shooting range. I would be a liar if I said that my parents' reactions didn't infuriate me to no end; however, knowing both my parents, they'd be cooing and petting each other by the end of the night. They had a weird relationship. _Home sweet freakin' home,_ I thought sourly and turned to pick up my bag. Just as I bent down and reached for it, a knife-a nice sized Katar dagger- appeared out of nowhere, nearly pinning my hands to the bag. I jerked my hand back,

"What the _fu_-" I began, only to be cut off by a low snigger. I turned to glare at my now doubled-over-laughing older brother. "The hell was that about?" I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest, "You could have killed me!"

"But I didn't," he answered back, shrugging like he hadn't just thrown a dagger at his younger sister. His eyes, an icy-blue color, stared back at me with a look that told me he would rather use the dagger _on_ me than actually talk to me. For the millionth time, I found myself pondering over what _happened_ to him; I could remember being 5 and having him kick the ass of any bully that dared to threaten me. And then when I was 7, after a fishing accident, he _became _one of those bullies. "And, baby sister, I think the real question is why aren't you practicing? The Reaping, after all, is in less than 3 days; surely you want to at least _look_ threatening even if you aren't."

"Shut-up Marcus," I snapped out, ripping the dagger out of the back of my bag and throwing it on the far table. I didn't turn my back on him; there was this strange, dangerous look in his eyes that always reminded me of stories another one of our maids used to tell me about the 'Fey People': how they would sneak snakes into beds for people to sleep in, douse a light right at the edge of a drop-off or cliff, sneak a wolf in a cage full of sheep, something cunning and altogether _cruel_. "What I do or don't do is hardly any of _your_ concern."

"You wound me," he drawled out, placing a hand over his 'heart'. The smirk plastered on his lips ruined the effort. "And here I was thinking I could give my dear baby sister some kind of help." I snorted at that; that was rich.

"You don't want to _help_ me; you want me to turn my back so you could put a dagger through It." he shrugged, neither denying nor admitting it. he sauntered around me, towards the other end of the room to grab his dagger and I found myself watching his movements; there was a sort of lithe grace about it that reminded me of the dogs that some of the Peacekeepers sometimes had. He would have been really handsome if there had been any emotion, hell any_thing_ in his eyes. But there wasn't; his eyes were dead of any emotion. He reminded me of an angel; he's darkly handsome with blue-black hair, icy-blue eyes, and olive-toned skin, but he'd more likely rip the wings off of a butterfly and burn them than try to help anyone. I've _seen_ him do that, in fact.

"Little Kaia," he mused, his tone sending warning bells through my mind; I began shifting from foot to foot, all the while watching ever little move he made. "Always believing that you know everything; don't assume you know anything about me, baby sister, you don't know _anything."_

"And all of this coming from you? Yeah, no offense _brother dearest_, but your hardly the person to talk to about knowing anything; the things you _don't_ know could fill a book. Multiple books, in fact." Marcus chuckled and I stood at attention, my gaze fixed on the Katar dagger that he was carelessly twirling around his fingers. Every single one of my muscles were held at stark attention, my whole focus, _everything_ _I had_ was focused on the man that stood in front of me, with no empathy and a very sharp dagger.

"So sharp all the time," he muttered, still sounding amused, "and with the comebacks! I'm surprised that the trainers haven't beaten that out of you."

"They've tried," I assured him with a smile of my own, "I guess it just seems that a bunch of strangers have more empathy than you. Bit sad, don't'cha think?" I forced myself to remain calm and meet his eyes calmly, all the while feeling like something inside me was about to explode. _Holy. Crap_. I needed some way to release all of this pent up energy. Marcus didn't respond to that, just continued to play with the dagger and study me. Just then, Bernetta slowly ambled down the stairs, her eyes staring unseeingly at her on feet. Marcus, I noted, watched her descent with a look that I didn't quite like, but couldn't exactly name; didn't matter if I could name it or not, he wasn't going to touch Bernetta.

"Hello Berns," Marcus announced grandly, shooting her a look that I couldn't quite read, "it's good to see you again. Have you been avoiding me?" Bernetta, her eyes tight and shoulders tense, slowly turned to faced him, her gaze unreadable. Marcus arched a dark eyebrow at her, "What's the matter Berns? Cat got your tongue?" Bernetta didn't react, just stared stiffly at him. Maybe she wanted to smack him; God knows I've wanted to practically every day. Marcus just chuckled, shook his head, and turned on his heels, waltzing back towards the makeshift gym. He stopped at the door and called over his shoulder, "Good luck Kaia! And remember; Fortune only favors the brave. Not cowards who hide behind others." And with that, my darling older brother vanished behind the door, closing it with a very audible snap. I turned back to Bernetta and forced a smile, ignoring the very evident look of fear in her eyes,

"So what's for dinner?"


	4. Let the Games Begin

**Alrighty! Eventually someone will read this so on the off chance that someone is reading this, THANK YOU! and, unfortunately, The Hunger Games do not belong to me. it belongs to the incredible Suzanne Collins. with that, ENJOY!**

Let the Games Begin

I spent the last three days either in the school gym or in the gym attached to our home. My reasons? Only one:

The Hunger Games were upon us.

The games that would decide our fate, the games that would decide our futures, they games would decide whether or not we deserve the title of 'Peacekeeper'-as my family would tell me. I always found it ironic that to be 'worthy' to be called a _Peace_keeper, you had to win the Hunger Games. Isn't that, like, a Catch-22 or something? Anyways, the day has finally arrived and the air around us all is one of excitement. Even though District 2 was involved in the Mockingjay Rebellion, they still considered the game tradition. I never quite got that either, but I guess, at this point, it doesn't matter.

"-you ready?" a voice to my side asked suddenly. I turned, surprised, and noticed my mother, all decked out in her Reaping outfit: a fitted, golden dress, light blue flats, and her hair donned in a bun on the top of her head, random curls blowing around her face due to an irritating breeze that just kept flitting around us; God, I swear Jack Frost must be on a different time calendar then everyone else cause I could swear that it wasn't this cold last year. I shivered as another breeze blew through the overcrowded area, wrapping my arms around myself and wishing that I had brought a jacket or something.

'You must appear strong and undaunted,' my mother had told me when I made the suggestion, 'you and I will be going in the same outfit and I will not require a jacket.' Yeah, I wanted to tell her, but your heart is practically frozen over; the cold doesn't bother you. I hadn't told her this but I had been really tempted.

"Yes mother," I answered, straightening my spine and pushing forward, "I'm ready."

Ready to prove myself.

Ready to prove that I was every bit District 2 material as anyone else.

And, more than anything, ready to prove that I was _nothing _like my mother.

….

_I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. There is nothing more I hate than this. _We've been standing in this damned cold for over an hour, listening to the District 2 Escort-an irritatingly happy, bright yellow haired woman named Candra-explain how the Games were for our own good, how we were the ones who were at fault for the Mockingjay Rebellion that happened over 7 years ago, how it should be an absolute _honor_ and how we should feel _absolutely blessed_ to have been spared while the traitorous District 12 had been wiped off of Panem. From what I remember, 7 years there was only 2 Tributes chosen; now there are 4: 2 girls and 2 boys. The Rebels thought they were doing something for the good of everyone.

This was probably a slap in their faces. Not that any of them were around to feel the smack.

Gritting my teeth, I forced everything inside me _not _to react to the cold around me. All the other Districts probably thought that we were better off because we provided the Peacekeepers for the capitol. The truth was we weren't. Oh, it may seem like everything is fantastic, but it's not: we have countless people who are in need of food. Hundreds of people who weren't born into wealthier families or Peacekeeper families and were therefore lower than dirt; they were worse than dirt, in fact. Dirt had its uses, what use did these people have? None. They were nothing more than parasites that took up space and air. Standing on either side of me are girls who are all my age: all 15, all prepared for the games, all dying to have their names Reaped. I wish them well. Around me, on one side, are girls ranging from 12 to 18. On the opposite side there are all boys, also ranging from 12 to 18. My brother is somewhere over there, undoubtedly hoping that he will be one of the 'lucky' people to be reaped. I hope he is. Another gust of wind blows through the crowd, causing countless people around me to shift in their spots, all hoping to somehow warm themselves. I don't move. I follow my parents' orders and stand tall and proud, undaunted by a bit of cold wind. But _damn_ this is chilly.

"… And thus," Candra was saying, her voice rising over both the wind and the sounds of people shuffling in place, "it is time for the moment you all have undoubtedly been waiting for! It is time for the Reaping! Which lucky girls and boys, I wonder, will be chosen? Let us see and find out! Let's change it around this year: Gentlemen first!" she turns around, glances at a glass bowl that's being offered to her by a Peacekeeper-"My father," one of the girls to my side had announced proudly, as though being a Peacekeeper had been all her idea-and I make a face and glance down at my finger: the prick that had been issued to gain some of my blood had hurt. A lot more than I had anticipated. It hadn't hurt that much last year, had it? My pointer finger's still throbbing, despite everything. Candra reaches inside the glass bowl, fingers some of the slip carefully and then slowly pulls a slip of paper out. She slowly unwraps a folded sheet of paper, treating it more like a priceless artifact than a death sentence. There's a moment of silence, anticipation heavy in the air. "Sax Holden!" she announces, earning a cheer from the surrounding crowd. A large picture of him appears on both screens around the stage, showing a proud, waving boy. A tall, chubby man beams, smacks his hands together, and begins shouting praises at his little beast, turning to anyone who will listen and exclaiming just how amazing his son was for being reaped, repeatedly yelling,

"That's my boy! _That's_ my Boy! That is _my_ boy!" Really? I thought the boy bore more semblance to, well, a _boar_. Sax, the evil creature of darkness, smirks and slowly makes his way up towards the stage, his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his mustard colored suit, and away from the crowd of jealous-looking 16 year-olds, his every movement portraying arrogance: Just wait, I want to tell him, the games aren't going to be all sunshine and Daisies. Just you wait. As the crowd slowly begins to grow silent, Candra beams out at all of us,

"Excellent! Now my boy"-cue a teasing wink at Sax's father who still looks like he was graced with a gift-"who shall be your opponent or ally in these games?" again, Candra turns a towards the Peacekeeper at her side, reaches inside the glass bowl, and pulls out another name, making the same big deal that she had made before. After slowly unraveling the sheet of paper, her grin grows even wider, "Marcus Aurelias!" The crowd, loud before, is now deafening and I can barely make out my own thoughts. I glance over at the other 18 year-olds, all looking at Marcus with various forms of Awe, hero-worship, or downright jealousy. I turn away from them and look into the crowd, looking for my parents; they're both there, looking for the entire world like they had just seen a miracle: mom has tears running down her face while dad is just standing there, his arm draped around mom's shoulder, beaming with pride. I can see a lot of Marcus in his expression. A lot of the _old_ Marcus. The girl at my side - little Miss. 'That's _my_ daddy!'-elbows me in the ribs, adoration and the beginnings of a crush appearing in her cold light grey eyes.

"Lucky," she hisses at me, "I wish my brother was like yours!" her brother, yeah, 's-all-follow-Marcus-like-slaves-and-maybe-get-wit h-his-baby-sister. My feelings for Carver sashayed from hate to apathy. I glare up at the large screens that show Marcus and watch as he confidently strides up the steps, holding his head like a king before his subject (the dark purple suit he wears only enhances the image), and then takes Candra's hand and kisses her knuckles, earning a giggle that everyone heard because it was right next to the microphone. I glare at his overconfidence in disgust. _Pig._

"Well," Candra drawls out, still giggling and turning pink. Behind her, Marcus ignores the outstretched hand of Sax's and casually leans back in his chair, crossing his leg over his knee. Sax's hand falls limply to his side. "Ahem, thank you for your ahh," here, her blush gets even darker-"for your… _enthusiasm _for this. Now," finally, Candra straightens up, becoming all business, "it's time for you ladies! Who shall represent District 2 amongst the ladies, mm?" on her other side, another man steps forward and offers her another glass bowl filled with half sheets of papers with mechanically typed names. My throbbing finger suddenly decides it wants to hurt even more and begins to act like a drum set; beating and beating and beating. I wince and, because I know the cameras aren't focused on me, a slip my finger into my mouth, attempting to suck out the pain. Candra continues to dig through the piles of names and finally chooses one and pulls it out and, for a second, my heart stops, fully expecting to hear my own name,

"Tatum Duce!" Candra declares. All around me, everyone applauds, now seeming more out of politeness than anything else. And I watch the aisle, unsurprised, as Tatum, dressed in a plain, cream colored, spaghetti strapped dress, walks away from the crowd of 17 year-old girls, her head held high and her cool green eyes daring anyone to contradict her; her auburn hair was held together at the top of her head with a simple, light blue band. Her face appears on the screen behind the stage and I watch for Marcus' reaction; his eyebrows draw together, making him look annoyed, and then he relaxes, leans forward and catches her hand in his. Holding her gaze, he smiles and kisses her knuckle, just as he had done for Candra. Tatum's face colors, but she makes no other reaction to being kissed by a god-according to Miss. That's _my_ Daddy! -As the cheering slowly dies down, Candra clears her throat and smiles, her bleached white teeth nearly blinding me from my spot in the audience. _Capitol people_, I think, still sucking on my throbbing finger.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen it is time to call the final name!" she turns to the Peacekeeper at her side and reaches into the bowl, her hand brushing over each page like she's blessing each one separately. Finally, she makes a grab for one but comes out with two; she wrinkles her nose and discards one of the cards and slowly begins to unfold the other. The entire audience holds its breath, and my finger _still_ throbs, when Candra calls,

"Psyche Aurelias!" I pause and stare up at the stage, my finger still inside my mouth (which, of course, appears on the large screen behind all the Tributes), and I suddenly realize where my finger is; I jerk it out and turn to the girl at my side, her grey eyes boring into me like I had done something wrong. "Ms. Aurelias?" Candra calls again and I elbow the girl out of my way and slowly trod towards the stage. My name, as compared to Marcus', is met with a small smattering of applause and I can't help but wonder what mom and dad's reactions are. I don't turn to look, although I really want to now, more than practically anything. I stand up straight, unable to get the picture of me with my finger shoved into my mouth out of my head and I know that neither can anyone else around me.

"You can do this," I mutter to myself, keeping my head up high and my back straight. I stand at the center of the stage, tall (as tall as I can be) and proud. I look out at the crowd and see some of my friends (as I call the people I eat lunch with) and my coach who looks at me with something close to pity.

"-must be his sister!" Candra is saying. I force my gaze away from the on looking crowd before I realize that I didn't see mom or dad in the crowd. Panic rises in my throat. "Oh! I can see the resemblance!" Candra is still saying, "Your parent must be so proud of the both of you!" slowly, I turn to face my… competition.

Sax is leering at me, looking like his greatest dream is coming true.

Tatum doesn't even seem to care that I'm here, just continues to examine her nails for any type of damage.

And Marcus studies me, his gaze cold and empty. I can no longer see any semblance to the boy who used to help me climb trees and helped me use a bow. This boy no longer has a care what happens to the girl who he spent 15 years with.

"Congratulations!" Candra chirps over the growing applause from the crowd. "Please help me in congratulating the Tributes for the 81st annual Hunger Games!"


	5. The Surprise Visitor

**GAH! thank you so much to everyone whose read this story and likes it! thank you! Here's chapter 5 please read and enjoy! and also, I do not own the Hunger Games; the story belongs to Suzanne Collins**

The Surprise Visitor

I stare at the picture in front of me for God knows how long.

_Psyche Aurelia!_

My name was called; _my name was called. _

_Please help me in welcoming the Tributes from District 2!_

Not only was my name called, but so was my older brother's. very slowly, my minds comes to grips with the fact that in less than a week, my older brother and I will be locked in an oversized cage, fighting for our lives _against each other. _I take in a deep, steadying breath that fails to settle me and I shove myself to my feet. _Make a plan,_ my years of training under Coach Thistle tells me, _come up with a game plan_. Easy for you to say, I'm tempted to shout at the empty air. You're not in this. You're not a part of the Games. You're not-

The sound of knocking slowly draws my out of my mini rant and find myself speed walking to the door; the room where my parents have the chance to meet me is small-I reach the door from the opposite end of the room in less than a dozen steps. My hand reaches for the doorknob and I force the giant block of wood open, the panic that I had shoved into the crevices of my mind resurfacing.

_My name was called_

The second the door is opened, both my parents shove past me and make way into the room, both of them acting like lords of a manor.

"Mom," I begin, stumbling forward and wanting nothing more than a hug at this point, "Dad I-" my voice chokes off and before I know it, my face is in my father's chest and sobs are rocking through my whole body.

_They called my name_

_My name has been called_

_I am going to die_

All too soon though, my father forces me away and holds me at arm's length, both of his hands on my shoulders, studying me like some new form of species. My mother stands at his left side, back straight and face expressionless. Something in their blank eyes tugs on my fear but I ignore the feeling; this is the man who taught me to use a knife, the woman who taught me how to match clothes. Surely they wouldn't turn on me in my hour of need.

Right?

I slowly step away from my father, watching as his hands drop to his side like stones. "Dad?" I try again, still attempting, in vain, to ignore the fist that suddenly closes around my heart, making it even harder for me to breath. "Mom? What's going on? Why-"

"Psyche," my father interrupts, glancing back at my mother who has yet to say a word, "this game… you being with Marcus-"

"I know," I mutter, stifling the feeling of relief. They're going to help me. "Watch my ba-"

"_No _Psyche," my father snaps out with more force than necessary causing the moment of relief to bloom and die, "Listen to me: there are going to be 44 Tributes in this game. Only one can come out. You need to help your brother so that it's either you or him. Understand?" and although he doesn't say it, I know what he means: _Your brother is a _true_ representative of District 2; make sure he wins._ I swallow back tears, feeling oddly betrayed at the obvious show of favoritism but find myself nodding at his words, agreeing with what my father is saying. Because he's right, isn't he? If there must be a Victor, of course it would come from our District. What other District is there worthy of winning the Games? I step back, away from my father and cast a glance at my mother, wondering if her words of wisdom will be any different. She studies me and shakes her head, her curls bobbing around her face.

"Listen to your father Psyche," she tells me, her voice cold and oddly formal; there's something in that voice that strikes a chord for me: have I heard that tone before? And slowly, the memory comes to me:

…_._

_I am six years old, running around our home with my Marcus, our laughter bouncing of the walls and all around us. Suddenly, we stop at a door, knowing it is the door to our father's study and knowing that we want to play a trick on him. Marcus and I- the former being no older than 9-stumble into the room, looking for good hiding places so that we can surprise our father: I hide, wedged between a bookcase and the wall, Marcus squished tightly behind me, both of us covering our mouths, stifling giggles of our own. Eventually, we hear the door squeak open and footsteps echoing all around the small room: Marcus and I share a look, even knowing back then that there is more than one person entering the room. We keep our voices down and try to pretend that we are not there. I hear the squeak of metal on wood and I know automatically that my father has just taken a seat. Marcus and I lean closer, trying to distinguish the other two people._

"_Mr. and Mrs. Aurelia," a voice begins softly and I wrinkle my nose at what I think is a whine in her voice, "please, all I'm asking for is some extra money: see, my son is-"_

"_we care very little for matters that do not concern us Hazel," my father interrupts, his voice steady and business-like, "although I am sure that you're telling us the truth, as you can come up with no proof of this claim then I am afraid that-"_

"_But sir!" the woman protests, surprising me further: no one talks to my father that way. "It-I'm not- why would I make something like this up? If I did I would be-"_

"_Disastrous," my mother interrupts now, her voice low and far from soothing; if anything, it sounds more dangerous than father's tone! "If we find out that this is nothing more than a scam-"_

"_I have worked faithfully with this family for years!" Ms. Hazel exclaims, sounding horrified at the mere thought if lying to my parents. As she should be, I think resolutely. "Why-young Marcus and Psyche are practically my children! I-"_

"_But they're not," my mother snaps out coldly and, although I can't see her face, I can imagine my mother's eyes flashing in a way that always makes me nervous. "They are not your children. And, as much as it pains me to say it-" no it doesn't, I think, wrinkling my nose at what I know is an obvious lie-"we cannot give you what you ask for; we have other matters of greater urgency we must attend to before we start giving out money away flippantly." Silence follows that statement and I'm tempted to glance around the corner of the bookshelf just to see Ms. Hazel's reaction. Marcus grabs a handful of the back of my shirt to stop me from doing that. I hear the pattering of feet-a single pair-as it slowly makes its way towards the door. I hear the squeak as the door open and suddenly my mother calls out, "For what it's worth, my sympathies are with you and your family," and again, I can hear the formality in her words, even at that age. And even at that age I know that the sympathy is not there._

_Ms. Hazel leaves the next day without saying goodbye and I have, to this day, no idea what happened to her._

….

I stare at my mother, hoping beyond hope that I'm imagining the coldness in her voice, like she's talking about someone, anyone else that's not her own kid. I swallow and look away when she doesn't meet my eyes, just staring at the same picture I had moments ago. It's a picture of sailboat, floating along the ocean, slightly air born after going over a wave: I don't know if that there to be calming or what, but whatever it's there for its not working.

"Mom, Dad," I begin, keeping my voice level and staring at them both, hoping one of them will catch my eye, mouth good-luck, and give me a hug or something. Neither does. I swallow back my own tears, suddenly wanting them gone as far away as possible. Luckily, the Peacekeeper waiting out by the door decides that the little meet and greet is over and ushers them both out. Neither of them looks back. I step back, falling into the chair from earlier and shake my head: I guess from now on, whatever happens, I'm on my own. The thoughts not nearly as bad as I thought it would be; more freeing than anything. I straighten up and rise to my feet, pacing from one end of the room to the other. Okay, what I need is allies, friends, people who I can trust to not stab me in the back-people I won't mind stabbing in the back when push comes to shove. I'm so deep in thought that when the door suddenly opens, I pay no mind to it. In fact, I wind up _literally_ running into it.

"Oww," I mutter, rubbing my forehead with my palm and cursing whoever's on the other side of that door. I glare up at the entering figure and feel my mouth drop when I recognize Cabell Runner, a boy around my age from school who always picked me to spar with during class. Then he got popular and ignored me like the plague. Before I can say anything though, he strides towards me, grabs my shoulders, squeezes them, and leans forward,

"Listen to me," he mutters urgently, his dark brown eyes darting around the room like he's afraid someone's watching. Paranoia must run rampant in this District, "Whatever you do, you need to find a weapon and hide, do you understand me? The other Tributes might be bigger but you have the element of surprise on your side; _no one_ can climb like you, not even The Mockingjay. _No one_ can use a knife or dagger like you. Understand me? Find a weapon, hide out until there's no suspicion, and then-_then-_ make your move; Marcus wins with brute strength. You need to fight with tactics. Do not stoop to his level, understand me? _Do. Not._" And with that, my ex-best friend leans forward and kisses me. Not the kind that I've seen him do around school, but the one with the underlining message that there might be _something_ there. When he lets go and steps back, he shoots me a smile and The Mockingjay sign-3 fingers, the pointer, middle, and ring finger tightly packed, side by side- "Remember Kaia, you _do_ have a chance at winning this. You just have to believe it yourself." And with that, he leaves the room without a backward glance while I'm left there, staring at the door like an idiot until the Peacekeepers come in and escort me to the trains, all the while I'm arguing with myself about whether or not I should be pissed or flattered.


	6. And Thus, the Surprises Keep on Coming

**Hello everyone! Chapter 6 is up! Please read and review and tell me what you think! Cyber cookies for all! The Hunger Games belongs to the wonderful Suzanne Collins!**

And Thus, the Surprises Keep on Coming

When the Peacekeepers deposit us off at the train-one being nice enough to pat my shoulder as a form of comfort… I think…- my brother is standing there acting like a god, Tatum is standing tall and proud, a small knitted basket of what I think is baked goods cradled in her arms, and Sax is just standing there, attempting to imitate Marcus and failing in the most epic of ways. He looks like such an idiot. Granted, I might be slightly biased…

Nah. He _does_ look like an idiot.

Candra skips over to us, smiles widely, congratulates us one more time, and then ushers us into the train. She's now wearing all yellow and looks like a sunflower- I suddenly feel the desperate need to throw something dark and horribly off-colored on her, just so I can look at her. She ushers the 4 of us-Marcus in the front, Sax trailing behind him like a good little puppy, Tatum following them with an 'I-could-care-less' look on her face, and me, little ole' me, bringing up the back-into a large cabin in the train. I sincerely hope me being the last to enter isn't prophetic in any way. I shove that thought out of my head while Cabell's words ricochet through my head like an AWOL ball; _get a knife. Run. Hide. Use strategic tactics. _

If only things were that easy. I don't even know I'm taking his words so seriously; he was one of my friends, he ditched me once upon a time, and then he suddenly appears out of nowhere, telling me what to do and that he actually cares what happens to me? Yeah, I may not be the sharpest tool on the shed, but even I can tell there's something sketchy about that. And if the rumors about his family are true, then that gives me even more reason _not_ to listen to him.

"-District 2's Victor-a charming woman named Nova Duce-will meet you and talk to each one of you separately so she can get to know you," here, Candra clap her hands together, a beaming smile in her face. Is healthy to be so happy so often? "Oh! I'm so sure that all of you will be the best of friends!" I never put much in store for what my parents call 'drugs', but somehow I think drugs have something to do with the inane idea that the 4 of us could be _friends_: the shifty looks Sax gives us, the calculating gleam in the eyes of my nearest and dearest, and the uncaring glance of Tatum somehow works to enhance the idea that Candra is either oblivious or insane. At this point, if she's my lifeline in the game, I'm not sure which is worse. "Who would like to see Nova first? Mm?" Candra glances at each of us separately and I find myself wondering if we should be jumping up and down for joy over this; I remember seeing Nova's game 5 years ago and I _still_ have nightmares about it. The Rebels had thought that _their_ games were bloody? They didn't know the meaning of the word.

"I'll go," Tatum volunteers off-handedly, as though the seeing a woman of legend isn't that big a deal, "she's my step-mother after all." I somehow feel cheated by that statement. Candra beams at her and, again, claps her hands together,

"Joyous! She's right through those doors. Here, let me show you…" their voices trail off as Tatum and Candra disappear from sight, the only noise being the sliding of a glass door. The silence that follows is so awkward that I find myself contemplating on jumping out of the moving train, just for something entertaining to do. Finally, surprisingly enough, it's Sax who breaks the silence. Turning to Marcus, Hero-Worship coming off of him in tidal waves, he begins,

"I still can't forget that amazing move back on the practice mat a couple of weeks ago. Remember? When you were sparring with that one guy-I think the idiot's name was something like Vine? Vine-y?-"

"Vinny," I chime in before I can stop it. I remember that guy: he was one of the few people I ate lunch with during classes and one of the few people I could actually stand. I resisted the urge to wince in sympathy for the poor guy; sparring with Marcus? Not fun. Sax shoots me a sneer worthy of… well, no one save for him,

"No one cares what you have to say _Psycho _so just stay-"

"I was giving you an answer!" I snap, wanting to wring his neck more than anything. Years of training-both from my school and from my parents (I flinch. Still writhing from, what I perceive, as their betrayal)-urge me to look around the room for some type of weapon; a jar? A napkin? A-

"Try the butter knife," Marcus suggests, surprising me further. I glance up at him to see him watching me; I suddenly realize that 15 years of growing up with him not only helped me read him, but helped _him_ read _me_. The thought made me nervous. "You'll have more of a chance to inflict some kind of injury that way."

"Anything can be used as a weapon," I counter, lifting my chin up arrogantly, the same way I've seen him do it for years. As if the day hasn't been weird enough already, another surprise happens; he smiles and laughs. At something _I_ said. "You just have to know how."

"You're right," he tells me after a pause in the conversation. Sax looks deflated and glances from me to Marcus. I'm pretty sure I resemble a fish but I don't want to look in the mirror to see. "Anything can be used as a weapon if used correctly." Before I have time to analyze that statement-I didn't _hear_ any derision in his voice, but then again he's incredible at hiding his feelings- the sliding doors at the back of the room enter and Tatum walks in, looking even more smug than usual.

"She wants to talk to you next Psyche," she informs the room at large, refusing to look me in the eye as though I have some rare, evil disease that'll reach her if she looks at me. I stare at her until finally, _finally_, she meets my eyes, her gaze as cold as ever, "well," she sneers, tossing her hair over her shoulder and crossing her arms over her chest, "are you going in there or what, _Psycho?_" the so-called insult no longer holds the amount if sting that she undoubtedly tried for, but I still bristled at her tone; my family was practically _royalty_-

"And so is her's," Marcus announces, his gaze locked on me, "remember your place and that of those around you." I consider throwing the first thing I touch at him before realizing that A) he's right (and that hurts more than I thought it would) and B) I don't want to keep Nova Tatum, _the_ Nova Duce, waiting.

"Whatever," I mutter, rising to my feet and rolling my ankle to get circulation back into it. Who would have thought that sitting on your ankle would destroy its circulation? Pushing myself forward, I drag my feet as I prepare to meet the Dragon of District 2.


	7. OC's Pt 2

Alright everyone who reads this story-thank you all 5 of you!- this is the last call for OC's so please submit them now!

Name:

Nickname:

Age:

Height:

Hair color:

Eye color:

Weaknesses:

Strengths:

Weapon of choice:

Reaping outfit/normal outfit:

District (1-11 minus 2):

Friends:

Enemies:

Anything extra:

Thank you for your amazing support and if there's anything you want to ask/tell/help me with please feel free to either PM or comment. Thank you! Ya'll rock!


	8. Well That's Different

***Gasp* thank you so much all of you wonderful people and readers and reviewers! chapter 7 is up! please enjoy and tell me what you think! **

**P.S; last chance to submit and OC**

Well… That's different

My first thought of Nova?

Small.

My second thought of Nova?

Glass.

She was sitting there at a table, next to the train car window, watching the scenery fly by. I found my gaze following her's, watching as the trees blurred together with all the other different colors; _green, blue, red, green, blue, red, greenblueredgreenbluered, greenbluere-_

"So you're Psyche? Please have a seat." a voice asked suddenly, drawing me out of my trance-like… thing. I look up to see Nova Duce studying me, her features thrown into sharp details as rays of light filter in through the moving train windows. Her dark brown eyes glitter coldly against Olive colored skin, blue-black hair braided down her back; she doesn't look like much, but after watching her play and seeing her completely dominate in the games I'm not willing to underestimate her in any way. Plus, it also helps that she's staring at me like she can't wait to pick out the flowers for my funeral while tapping a strangely morbid rhythm with her fingers on top of a folder that has my picture on it. Oh, so _that's_ what my Record looks like! Wow, it's really thick. She smiles and motions at the seat directly in front of her.

"Yes Ma'am," I answer politely, easily falling back into the mannerisms my parents seemed more than happy to beat into me and slowly lower myself into the chair, "My name's Psyche."

"Do you know who I am?" she asked, her eyes never leaving mine; there was something fragile, if not already cracked behind her eyes, and, again, I find myself thinking of glass: it doesn't break, it shatters but even then it still has the ability to cut you. I choose my words carefully,

"Yes Ma'am, I remember watching your game and I always wanted to meet you; you've been my hero for years," my answer doesn't seem to make any huge impact on her; she's still studying me with her eyes, reminding me of when I used-_God_, it feels so weird saying that!-to get answers wrong in my studies and my teachers would look at me like I had not only failed to answer her question, but like I had also done something awful.

"Simple flattery," she mused softly, twirling a strand of hair that had fallen from her braid around her finger, "will get you nowhere."

"It's not flattery," I reply, trying to keep the sucking up to a minimum; I had absolutely no idea what I was doing or even how to do something like this, "It's the truth."

"Mmm," she muses still watching me like a hawk. She drops the strand that had been wrapped around her finger and reaches her pale hand toward the folder, drawing the folder closing to her. She taps my picture on the cover - one. Twice. Three times with her long finger, the noise making me even more Jittery than I was before; suffice to say, the butterflies in my stomach had morphed into Capitol Birds. Finally, after a heavy silence that lasted for too long for my taste, she speaks,

"I've read your file, my dear, and I must say that I am impressed." I stare at her, astonished. A) Because _she_ just called _me_ impressive and B) because there was something not altogether truthful about her words. Oh, they sound nice; hell, they're practically music to my ears. But there's still something… _wrong_ about the words. Everything about them is perfect-the syntax, the tone, the delivery-everything. But there's just… _something. _it's like… the words are surrounded by a pretty little bubble and yet there's a hole in the bubble.

"I-I thank you, Mrs. Duce; to hear that from someone like you… there is no higher honor," I bite my tongue before I say something embarrassing like 'my lady' to her. She smiles thinly, her eyes still maintaining their customary-from what I tell so far-chill and her smile reptilian.

"Thank you Psyche and must I say, your running record has yet to be beat by," she pauses and opens my file, her eyes moving across the page with an almost stunning page, "anyone, from what I can tell." She cuts her gaze to me, beady eyes studying me. "Quite impressive."

"T-thank you," I mutter feeling my neck and face heat up. Who would have thought that anyone paid attention to my running? "Running is… is a release. There's something about it that's just so-so freeing; I can't imagine anything else nearly as calming." She leans forward, dark eyes still on me, and I suddenly feel overwhelmed with everything that's happened within the last day-has it only been one day?-and I suddenly just want to go outside. The only reason I don't is staring right at me; the flow and blurring of trees and lakes and the sky passing before me and around me and suddenly, I want to stand up and run; I want the train to stop; I want to go _home_. Her dark eyes are still on me as she leans forward even more, her voice low when she speaks to me,

"You and me, we would make a good team. You seem like someone who could keep their head during a fight-during anything, really-and with your speed and your skill with the knife? Unstoppable. I would be more than happy to sponsor you Psyche." I stare at her, shocked, and manage to stammer,

"I-I thank you, Ms. Duce but-"

"I want to sponsor you," she interrupts, her eyes glinting strangely, almost dangerously, and I'm reminded of jagged glass yet again, "_only_ you Psyche. No one else; I believe, well, I believe you could win this game for District 2. Think about it; the first District 2 Victor in 5 years, Psyche. Just _imagine_ what that would be like!" And I did; I imagined coming home to my parents, tall and proud, bearing the Laurel of the Victor and moving into the Victor's region of District 2. Amazing! "But," Nova added, dragging me harshly out of my daydream, "I want you to do something for me, understand? I want you to keep an eye on the other Tributes. Tell me if there is something going on, something out of the ordinary, understand?" I stared at her, unable to come up with any kind of response for that; she wants me to _spy_? Why? What was she worried about? But I nod obediently, answer with a soldier's echo of 'Yes, Ma'am,' and rise to my feet. She smiles at me, a large jagged smile that makes me wonder if it's possible to cut yourself on that smile, "and please Psyche, can you do me the favor and ask your brother-Marcus, is it?-to come and see me?" shooting me another glass smile, I return it with a formal one of my own and make my way to the door. My hand is on the door handle when an idea occurs to me and I turn to look at Nova,

"Mrs. Duce? What did you tell Tatum?" she smile at me, that cold jagged smile, her eyes as dark as ever, and shakes her head,

"Ahh, Psyche," she coos softly, "just as I won't tell anyone about our meeting, I won't reveal the happenings of other meetings. And, just to avoid bouts of jealousy, it would be in your best interest as well not to tell anyone. Do you understand me?" I nod and turn back to the door, the idea of turning my back on the woman behind me making me far more nervous than I have a right to be; she's helping me, isn't she? Why would I be afraid of her? I reenter the cabin where Marcus and Sax are situated-the former looking bored out of his mind, the latter nervously fiddling with his fingers-and shoot Marcus what I hope is a cold, blank look; I don't want him to know about the meeting until I manage to figure out why I felt so unbalanced by Mrs. Duce.

"She wants to talk to you next, Marcus," he nods once and gracefully rises from his seat. Strolling up to me, he flashes me a strange smile and ruffles my hair as he passes, almost like he's teasing me. What is _wrong_ with him today? As soon as the door closes behind him, I turn back to Sax and find him glaring at me.

"I know what you're doing _Psycho _and let me tell you; it won't work." I stare blankly at him,

"That's a good thing that you know what I'm up to because I have no idea what I'm up to. Can you please enlighten me?" he rises from his chair and stalks up to me, every muscle in his body seeming to flex; a predator and its prey. But I am not his prey. Straightening my back, I stare right back at him, hoping he can see every ounce of contempt I feel for him and say,

"I am not afraid of you _Sex _and considering that my brother and I aren't on the best of terms, I would like you to shut that giant hole under your nose before I smack you so hard, both your future _and _your past generations will feel it; oh wait! You won't _have_ future generations!" his 'open-close-open-close' mouth is awesome and I feel a wave of smugness about what I just said. The moment last barely a second, though, when I feel a blinding pain shoot up my jaw and I find myself on my side, cradling my jaw with my hand with stars dancing in the corner of my vision. I stare up at him as his face, bright red and splotchy, suddenly appears in my vision,

"What the _hell_ was that?!" I demand-I gasp, really-at him as he smirks down at me, looking entirely too smug. He doesn't answer me. "Uhh, excuse me, tall, dark, and dense? _What was that?"_

"That," he answers quietly, his beady eyes colder than ever, "is what is waiting for you in the games," he bows low, mockingly, and then drops to his knee, "you may be related to legends but you are still only mortal. You can die," he leans in closer, still on his knees, and whispers against my hand that's still cradling my cheek, "and I will be more than happy to prove that during the Games." Swearing at him, I push him away from me and shove myself to my feet, ignoring the way I weave on my feet, my eyes watering. I want to fight him. Screw that, I want to _kill_ him. I somehow manage to resist the urge and turn away from him despite every muscle in my body warning me against the idea. I don't care. I want to get away from him as quickly as I can. Just as I'm opening the door I saw Tatum escaping through earlier, the door to visit Nova Duce slides open and I hear Marcus telling Sax dismissively,

"She wants to speak with you now." I don't hear what Sax says as a reply because I escape before anything else can happen.


	9. A Charming BrotherSister Conversation

**Hey Everyone-all 5 of you rock!- chapter 8 is finally up so please read, review and enjoy! also, The Hunger Games does not belong to me! it belongs to the amazing Suzanne Collins!**

A Charming Brother/Sister Conversation

In truth, after _that_ little debacle, I honestly didn't want to see anyone-Tatum's cold apathy, Marcus' smug smirk, Sax's… well anything- so I somehow find myself in one of the spare rooms (why are there so _many_?!), staring out at the ever changing scenery, wishing that I was home. My jaw's still aching but thankfully my vision had stopped morphing into nonsensical images-I swear I saw a Mockingjay badge on one of the walls (an illegal sign of the last Rebellion) as I moved through the different rooms. Candra had somehow managed to appear out of nowhere (now _that_ would be helpful in the games) and began talking to me about agriculture and the price of wheat brought in from District 11. I quickly excused myself and made myself scarce. Sighing, I lean back against the ledge I am currently sitting on, looking up at the clouds and trying to pick pictures out of them-a fanciful game that a District 2 child should _not_ partake in-and wonder what my parents are doing; do they miss me? Do they regret not giving me a proper send off? Do they-

"Huh. I thought I'd find you here," the voice, a sound that often accompanies both good and bad memories from my childhood, announces from behind me. My neck whips to the side, a sharp pain arching up through the limb (is a neck a limb? I might have to ask Candra later…), and I stare, gaping, as my older brother enters the small room. He's no longer wearing the purple suit from the Reaping; he now wears a pair of faded blue jeans and a light gold shirt that accents all his hard work in the gyms. Staring at him, I suddenly realize how horribly unprepared I am for the games; I'm small, barely 5'4, and weigh probably 10 pounds soaking wet. I may have been born in the Workout capital of Panem, but I inherited my mother's looks down to the very curls that are roughly tied on a bun on the top of my head. I still haven't ditched my Reaping outfit but I want to before they reveal the other Tributes. "You always did like hiding out in the room with a view. I guess I thought the being picked to die would change that. Guess I was wrong."

"Well, _that_ shouldn't be a very foreign feeling to you, should it?" I asked sweetly, hoping he'd get the hint and leave me alone; No such luck. I watch-completely dismayed-as he drags another chair across the room and places it right next to mine and then lowers himself into it. Most guys after sitting down slump in their chairs, choosing to be perfectly at ease. Marcus is not 'most guys'. He sits, his shoulders back and his head raised, every ounce a king as anyone I've ever read about. I study him, hoping to find some ounce of me or my mother in his features; lithe form, short, dark brown hair and icy blue eyes. He looks a lot like my father save for the eyes. My father always said they were the eyes of his maternal grandmother. I never met her so I have no idea if that's the truth or not.

"Still sharp as I whip, aren't you?"

"It's far better than being smooth as a whip; those buggers ain't smooth." He chuckles, surprising me yet again. Twice. That's _twice_ that he laughed at something I said.

"Always with the retorts, eh?"

"What do you want Marcus," I finally demand, the events of the day finally catching up with me; I was Reaped to die, Nova Duce might be slightly off-balanced, and my jaw freaking _hurts_. "if it's to give me one of your 'pep talks' then please keep it short; I have better things to do than listen to you ramble on and on about how superior you are to us mere mortals."

"Is that really what I sound like?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at me and jutting out his lower lip. The action surprises me: is he _pouting?_

"Only on the days that end in 'y'," I tell him with a shrug of my own. He laughs. Again. But despite myself, I feel my own face breaking out into a smile. And then, of course, I remember the pretty little bruise that undoubtedly colors my jaw. My face goes back to its expressionless mask as pain sparks up my jaw. Marcus' smile fades,

"What happened to your face?" he asks reaching out a hand as though he wanted to touch it. I jerk my head out if his reach sending another burst of pain through my face and shove myself to my feet.

"What are you playing at?" I spit stepping back until my back hits the back wall and then I lean against it, wrapping my arms around myself protectively. He ignores my question,

"Kaia, what happened to your face?"

"I fell."

"Oh? And the ground managed to bruise your face?"

"Of course; the ground is a vindictive brute, capable of pounding the wits out of anyone."

"'you fell'? That's seriously your excuse?"

"Yes and it's a perfectly good one!"

"Your coaches didn't buy that and I sure as hell am not: now what happened?" I glare at him, furious at his audacity. He gave me worse bruises than the one on my face and he has the nerve to think he deserves an explanation? Ha! That's rich.

"Why do you suddenly care?"

"You're my sister!"

"That's never stopped you before."

"Maybe I decided to turn over a new leaf. Ever thought of that?"

"You sure picked one hell of a time to try and set things right!" Marcus glares at me, his blue eyes narrowed and his brow pinched. Suddenly, the anger drains and he looks apologetic,

"Look, I'm sorry that I haven't been the best older brother but I'm trying to set things right. Please at least try?" I glare at him a little longer than manage to let out a sigh, exhaustion practically dragging me down. God I need sleep.

"Fine."

"Then let's try this again," he states, pointing to the chair directly in front of him, the chair I had just vacated. I hesitate and then shrug, taking my sweet time as I returned to the seat in question. "What happened to your face?"

"I told you; I fell." He let out another sigh, the sound underlined with a touch of anger. "And, yes, I am well aware that that excuse is overused but I'm sticking with it; I. _Fell_. End of story."

"Mmhmm," he mused, his eyes still narrowed, "And, in this fight, who won?" I snorted at that and lifted my arms in a 'come at me' gesture, putting every ounce of pride and arrogance I can manage into my voice,

"Me of course. Do you see the ground getting back up?" he snorts and rolls his eyes, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. I'm surprised that I feel almost… relaxed by the boy in front of me. Odd, since he made the last… 8 years? The last 8 years of my life a living hell. Funny how that works. "So… what do you want, Marcus?"

"An alliance," he states, his voice quiet and clear, his eyes pining me to my seat. I stare back, trying to keep my stare as steady as possible, "After all, family trumps everything else, right?"

"Right," I answer, forcing myself to sit up straighter, "'Family' is what you call torturing your baby sister for a good portion of her life."

"_That's_ called 'sibling rivalry."

"You tried to drown me!"

"Once," he argues, rising to his feet while I remain seated. In a way, I like the fact that I can get a rise out of him. It means that he is human and that he is susceptible to bouts of anger. "Ok? Only once."

"And then there was that one time when you broke my wrist-"

"Accident."

"There was that other time when you bruised two of my ribs-"

"I-"

"And then, this was probably my _absolute favorite_ 'incident', when you threw that _Pugio_dagger at me and it buried into my stomach!"

"I'm sorry!" He roars, surprising me by the intensity in his voice and the actual emotion in his eyes. "Okay? I'm sorry; I'm sorry I was such an awful brother! I'm sorry I put you through all that. I. Am. _Sorry!_ If I could go back and change it I would! But I can't!" He pauses, squeezes his eyes shut, and pinches the bridge of his nose, taking in deep breathes.

In.

Out.

Very slowly, he lowered his arms to his side and stared at me with glassy blue eyes and I suddenly see the little boy in him. Something in me softens but I shove that part away, not wanting it to intervene in this conversation; I don't need any sympathy now nor do I want it. The silence that follows is far heavier than any other I have ever experienced. "What did she say to you?" he asked suddenly, his voice dragging me out of me own internal debate _(Don't trust him! He's your brother. Don't trust him!)_ I stare up at him, wondering what he's playing at, "Nova. What did she tell you?"

"That's hardly any of your concern, brother-dearest," I answer back, keeping my voice haughty and cold.

"She told you that she would sponsor you, didn't she? You, and only you, as long as you promise to be her little mockingjay, as long as you promise to repeat everything you hear back to her, right?" I stare at him, astonished,

"How did you-"

"She told me the same thing," he announces bluntly, not once dropping his gaze from mine, standing stock still. "She told me the same thing and I bet every chore coin I have that she said the same thing to Tatum and-and-"

"Sax," I supply, pushing myself to my feet and crossing my arms over my chest, "the idiot's name is Sax." Marcus frowns and shakes his head, running another hand through his hair,

"Yeah. Him. But Kaia," he begins again taking a step forward and pinning me to where I stood with his eyes. He has that irritating presence about him that drove me insane countless times. "Right now, I need someone who I can trust; not someone I have to continuously watch my back for."

"There are 44 of us," I remind him slowly, still finding it hard to grasp the fact that he wants to ally himself with _me_ of all people, "44 of us and only one can come out. If you and me fight together…" I trail off, purposely trying to make him see the obvious ending to this very tragic story. He studies me, his eyes strangely intense and calculating. A second later, the look vanishes and he nods gravely, as though the very thought is taking something out of him,

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

**So what did ya'll think? is Marcus serious? is he awesome? has he really turned over a new leaf? tune in later for some kind of answer!**


	10. Meeting the other Tributes… In a way

**Yeah! Chapter 9! it's up a little sooner than I thought it'd be but here it is! in honor of Veteran's Day. God Bless out Troops in all branches of the Military! also, I do not own the Hunger Games. the series belongs to Suzanne Collins.**

Meeting the other Tributes… In a way

After that little moment with my dear older brother, we're called back into the main train car by Candra-through her good little messenger dog, Sax. That is how I now find myself situated on the floor, leaning my back against the farthest wall-'my little corner,' I dub thee great wall- while looking at a large screen that's bigger than any window in my house.

It's amazing what the Capitol spends all of its money on.

"Alrighty," Candra declares, clapping her hands together and skipping over to where a nice looking table is situated. On it sits at least 4 different remotes and 3 cups of… something. I watch as Tatum reaches out and grabs one of the cups and takes a long sip. When she sets it down, she apparently feels my gaze on her because she turns and sneers at me and I can't help but notice bags under her pretty little eyes just as she, apparently, can't take her eyes away from the bruise I know now colors my jaw. Aww, the poor little Axe-throwing girl is tired, I feel so bad for her.

Not.

I return her sneer with a cheerful wave of my finger and look back at the large Screen. Marcus, who comes in right after me, makes a point to 'subtly' walk right by me and kicks one of my crossed knees and, despite the fact that I don't _want_ to understand the silent warning, I do understand it; _watch yourself. We'll need allies in these Games._

Well, I want to tell him, way to take _that_ moment of fun away from me. I stick my tongue out at him and he rolls his eyes while reclining casually against the wall directly in front of the large screen, not allowing his focus to veer away from, what he obviously thinks, is a defining moment in the Games. Leaning right next to him, like a smaller, far less intimidating shadow, is Sax. When he catches my eye, the sneer I expect to see isn't there. In its place is an apologetic smile, like he's now offering an olive branch. The smile looks odd on his face. I tear my gaze away from the unexpected gesture wondering maybe if he and Candra are now sharing 'drugs'. If so… well, I kind of want some now if they'd help me put up with these four. Then again, when I look at Marcus and see the cunning and calculating look in his eyes as he studies all of us, I realize that I need my brain to be working at its maximum potential. _He's my brother_, part of my mind argues, _and he needs you and he's asking you for help; he wouldn't do anything._

_He's also the guy who tried to drown you, the guy who broke numerous bones in your body, and the guy who threw a knife at you, _the other part of my mind argues. I resist the urge to groan out loud. Fantastic, so this is what it feels like to be at war with yourself.

"What are we doing here?" Tatum asks, pulling me out of my moment. "I mean, the Capitol is only 6 hours away. Surely anything we can see on this train can be seen at the Capitol." Candra beams at her, and I wonder how her face doesn't split in half.

"Simple, my dove," she chirps happily, twirling her arms around like a child, causing her bright yellow dress to spin around her. She reminds me of some of the little girls I've seen at District 2 meetings. "When we arrive at the Capitol, We have far more important matters to discuss than this! Plus," she adds while leaning forward, like she's sharing some huge secret with us. "Isn't it far more exciting to meet your opponents before actually meeting them?"

"That makes no sense," I argue, still keeping my seat on the ground. The rug is fuzzy and warm and strangely comfortable on my butt. I never want to leave this rug. "I mean, meeting implies seeing someone face to face and-" she waves her hands in a motion that tells me she doesn't really care what I have to see. I would throw something at her, but that would mean I would have to move.

"Nonsense darling, we can meet them without actually meeting them."

"But we-" I can begin when, out of nowhere, Marcus pointedly clears his throat.

"What Psyche is trying to say," he begins, shooting me a look that says, _shut up. Just shut up now._ "Is that we're not actually meeting them yet, are we? We're just seeing who's been Reaped." Candra beams at him, her face turning a slightly pink. I roll my eyes.

"Yes, M'boy," Candra coos, batting her eyelashes at a boy that's probably 12 years younger than her and I look on with a mingling of disgust and intrigue. Is this how Capitol people normally act? "This is a chance to see who your fellow Tributes are."

"Has every District already picked Tributes?" Sax questions, looking astounded, "It's only been a few hours since our own Reaping!" Tatum rolls her eyes and shoots him a scathing look. I grudgingly feel a growing respect for her.

"All of the Reaping's are at the same time, Sax," she informs him with a roll of her eyes, "in fact, right about now, the other District are probably looking at _our_ Reaping." Sax leans back, looking surprised. I hide my reaction better, but I'm also astonished. And slightly dismayed; God, I hope the little bit of me with my finger in my mouth wasn't part of the Reaping.

"Well," declares Candra buoyantly, "Let's take a look, shall we?" and with that, she reaches for one of the remotes and points it at the large screen. I watch as it flickers to life, the screen filling the entire room with light. On the screen, there's a tall, blue-haired man on the stage. I recognize him; Nicolai Greenwood, the Escort for District 1 and the most flamboyant man I have ever seen. He's every bit a Capitol-elite as anyone can be. When the cameras zoom in close to his face, I see the little flecks of an unnatural green in his grey eyes. Even his skin has a gaudy orange color. Compared to him, Candra seems normal.

"-'Lo everyone!" he's saying, his arms raised at his side, "And please join me in celebrating the 81st annual Hunger Games!" The crowd's answering bellow, even on the screen, is deafening. Nicolai smiles indulgently, and eventually, the crowd settles down. He continues, "As you all know, this celebrated occasion was started by the merciful Capitol after the treacherous Mockingjay Rebellion and-" He goes on to say how very naughty the District were for the Uprising and continuously praises the Capitol for being merciful. I stifle a yawn, knowing that Candra-who's staring at the screen with awestruck wonder on her face-would be a bit put out with me for my lack of 'manners.' Maybe I should yawn, just to get on her nerves…

"Focus Psyche," Marcus whispers harshly, diverting my attention away from the flamboyant Escort momentarily. Marcus glares at me and I hold his gaze. Finally, he shifts his eyes back to the screen and I smile, pleased with my small victory. After another 10 minutes of the boring recounting of The Hunger Games' history, Nicolai finally gets to the good part,

"-And, it is my pleasure to pick the Tributes for these Games!" the crowd roars in satisfaction and Nicolai turns to a Peacekeeper at his right, "Ladies first!" he dips his orange hand into the glass container and rummages around for a minute or so. Finally, he pulls out a small slip of paper. He clears his throat and turns to the crowd, "Summer Birch!" the crowd roars its approval and an olive-skinned, dark haired, older looking girl struts towards the stage, her head thrown back and her mouth curled up in a smile. I can practically hear my brother and Sax salivating. Nicolai smiles at the girl-Summer-before reaching into the glass for another slip. Just as dramatically as before, he pulls out a name and announces, "Chanda Prince!" The crowd roars so life once again as a smile, fair haired girl slowly trails to the stage and, as the cameras scroll in closer to the girl's face, I can see that her hazel eyes are darkened with fear. As she goes to stand next to the other girl, I notice that stark difference between the two: one is dark and proud; the other is fair and scared. Nicolai beams and claps before turning to a Peacekeeper at his other side. He reaches in and pulls out, "Comet Sanso!" a fair haired boy who resembles Marcus in build, height, and attitude confidently struts up the stage. After him is a smaller boy-no more than 13-named Samson Moso. The screen fades away, the distant sound of cheering the last thing we here before our Reaping appears. I see Sax, Marcus, and Tatum all standing proud as they approach the stage. Then I see me, my finger in my mouth and my eyes wide.

Damn the Capitol. Just… Damn them.

Luckily, our Reaping is quick. The screen goes black for a second and then it's lit with colors. I'm surprised. After the Rebellion, District 3, having been one of the first Districts to Rebel, was punished more severely than the others-well, except for District 12: they were completely obliterated. The District 3 Escort, a calm-looking man named Hess, ambles onto the stage, says the same exact thing as Nicolai (I'm going to hear this stupid speech eight more times… Kill. Me. Now.) and then turns to a Peacekeeper holding 2 glass containers. He pulls out two girls-a dark skinned girl named Dennise and a small, dark-haired girl named Pena- and 2 boys-a frail, slight boy and a boy that's built like a Peacekeeper.

"How much longer is this," I stage whisper to anyone as the screen goes dark. No one answers; Candra's too involved in the Reapings, Tatum and Sax are purposely ignoring me, and Marcus just tries to kick me again. Jerks.

The District 4 Escort, another brightly colored man named Angus steps forward. He repeats the history (with me internally adding my own bits to keep it interesting) and then turns to his side to pick out names. He picks the boys' names first: the first boy is a tall, good-looking boy named Joven Morrison (it's a shame he's probably going to die) and the next boy looks young-very, very young- and bears the name James Collins. Up next are two girls, a surprisingly pale girl named Feather Nona and taller girl named Kena Rowen. The screen goes black.

The District 5 Escort, pink-haired woman named Scotia steps forward and pulls out two girl names. A tall dark-haired, dark-skinned girl walks confidently to the stage after her name-"Amber Watt!"-is called and she is soon followed by a smaller girl who couldn't be older than twelve. Next were the boys: an older, olive-skinned guy named Piero Montoy and a pale-faced boy named Alecto Monde who doesn't look any older than thirteen.

District 6 Escort, a hauntingly pale faced woman whose name I have long since forgotten, calls 2 boys-an older one named Aaron Shale and a dark skinned boy named Peter Zelos- followed by two girls-Alia Jex and Maia Ilesha.

District 7's Tributes are a skinny dark-haired girl named Lilly Mayflower and a reddish-blonde haired girl named Arcadia Grey, soon followed by a tanned skin, dark-haired boy called Jack Wannabe-"Psh. 'Wannabe'? What kind if name is _that?_" Marcus leveled another 'Shut up or I will murder you painfully' look. I poked my tongue out at him. Killjoy.-and a younger looking boy named Kenneth Marko.

The District 8 Tributes are all underfed, malnourished looking, and look like skeletons. A small part of me almost feels bad for them. However, I quickly squash that feeling of pity as I remember that these are my opponents, my enemies in the game. I can't afford to pity them. Despite this knowledge, I can't force my eyes to return to the screen. Looking around the small room, I see Tatum in the same predicament as me and Sax making a point to stare at anything other than the screen. Marcus, on the other hand, can't seem to look away from the screen. Know your enemy, I think warily as I watch Marcus.

District 9, Thank God, looks far better than those from District 8. By that, I mean that I can't see their bones and the actually look like they bathed within the last day or so. The District Escort, a flamboyant red-skinned man named Icy-I'm beginning to wonder of the Escorts' parents either hated their children or if the Escorts chose their own names-decides to be different by placing the glass jars on a table and then leans forward to pick the names. The two boys chosen for the District are a tall, dark-skinned, dark-haired boy named Obadiah Muston and a slighter, younger looking boy who appears to be literally shaking. I hear a snort at this; evidently my fellow Tributes also noticed the boy's condition. I ignore the urge to tell off whoever snorted-I'd bet almost anything it was Sax-by bringing my thumb to my mouth and biting on the nail. A nervous habit my parents spent years trying to 'cleanse' me of. Next up was the two girls-a small, ebony-skinned girl named Semele Gavin and an older, deeply tanned girl named Azrael Newt. Something about the older girl, from the proud way she stands to the calculating look visible in her eyes, tells me that she will definitely be either a very useful ally or a very deadly opponent. I look away from the screen for a second and catch Marcus' eyes. He nods as though agreeing with my thoughts. That idea that he knows what I'm thinking scares me. _He's your brother_, my mind tells me, _he's your blood_.

_Yeah_, my memory scoffs, _that's what putting you through years of torture was for_.

To escape the internal debate, I force my attention back to the screen just as the District 10 Escort reaches for his jars. He calls a younger looking girl with long, curly dark red hair-Elisabeth Mason- and dark skinned, older looking girl-Nica Joan. He then turns to the second Jar and calls Ethan Crosby and Elijah Nathan. The former can't be older than 12 and the latter looks scared out of his wits. What catches my attention is that when little Elijah was called, a loud, heart-breaking wail was heard from somewhere off screen. Like all the other Reapings, the camera had rolled around towards the audience, as though the Capitol wanted to see the reactions. This District was no different. As the camera rolled around, an older woman with caramel colored skin was shown, followed by an older girl-who looked within age for the Reaping-both with horrified looks on their faces. Something told me that if she could, the older girl would have volunteered, a taboo ever since the Mockingjay Rebellion. The last time there was a volunteer he was killed within seconds of volunteering. The Capitol, it seems, didn't want a repeat of the Rebellion. Or the Mockingjay.

Finally, _finally _the final District 11 Reaping comes and I can't wait until I can leave this room-despite my amazing place on the ground-and I can go to _my_ room. Or get some food. At this point I don't know which I want more. The Escort shoots an unnaturally white smile at the crowd and then reaches for the Jar closes to him. She pulls out a name-Hazel Matric- and a small, black haired girl stumbles up to the stage and, unlike the last times, I actually listen for any yelling in the background. There is none, even as the Escort calls a girl that can be no older than 12-Ira Hardwood-onto the stage. My gut twists as realize that I'll be in a game where I have to kill them. I suddenly no longer feel hungry. And then I feel bad; chances are that any meat I eat has been grown and slaughtered by them. I guess children of the District are no better than livestock.

"Philip McCoy!" the Escort yells suddenly, jerking my attention back to the screen. A boy with dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes steps forward. Although he has the body of, well Marcus and that District 1 Tribute-Comet, I think his name was-his face is childlike, making me think that he can't be that much older than me. His eyes, the second that I saw them, are terrified but kind. Poor kid. The next kid is an older, fair-haired boy who seemed to be walking in the strangest of ways… was he...

"Is-is he _blind_?" I demand casting an astonished look at Candra. She shrugs in response, as though she can't be troubled with such a minor detail. To the side, Sax nods and mutters,

"Easy picking."

"I-you-_what?_" I sputter, watching all of them in horror, "that kid is blind! How the hell can he fight-how the hell can he do _anything_ if he can't see?!"

"They just want a show," Marcus mutters at my side, his gaze still focused on the screen.

"It isn't fair!" I snap, realizing too late how childish that sounds. Marcus shoots me a look,

"None of this is fair."

"I know but-"

"Just… watch." The Escort smiles, waves, and declares his joy to see such large and healthy Tributes. I'm still reeling over the fact that a _blind kid_ was picked when the screen goes black and the lights in the small compartment come on. I wince as my eyes slowly become accustomed to the sudden brightness. Still blinking spots out of my eyes, I watch as Candra beans and turns to all of us,

"So what do you lot think, mm?"

"District's one and three," Tatum announces suddenly causing everyone to look at her. "Of course we'll form some kind of alliance with them."

"And District's four and maybe a few other select few," Marcus adds, shooting another unreadable look at Tatum. It almost looks like… Respect? No, something… More. Something almost scary.

"Is no one going to comment on a blind kid being picked?" I demand. They all ignore me,

"We also have to consider who would actually ally themselves with the Careers," Sax argues while rising to his feet. Tatum and Marcus, who were leaning on the wall for the duration of the Reapings, are already up which leaves me on my comfortable seat on the ground. "I mean, I know we'll have District one and two-" I sigh, realizing that no one else is going to say anything on the blind kid,

"-and District four, maybe five," I add while brushing my thumb across my chin and wiping the poor kid out of my mind. "Right there we have-"

-Sixteen," Marcus muses cutting me off, "maybe twenty if District five want's to help us."

"There are forty-four tributes," I argue from my comfy spot. "I mean, I'm all for having allies but even then that's less than half. And that's _if_ District five wants to help."

"But you have to remember," Tatum counters, pacing from one end of the room to the other, successfully making me dizzy, "by that night, half of those kids will likely be dead. So our sixteen, maybe twenty allies will be more than enough to take down some of the few remaining Tributes who -didn't die off at first."

"And then what?" I ask, "the other Tributes are dead, all is well, Hoorah. But when they're dead we… What? Turn on the other Tributes?"

"Of course," Marcus informs me, shrugging himself off of the wall and following Tatum with his eyes, "after they're all dead, we can start turning our attention to what matters most-"

"-the other Careers," Sax finishes, for once not looking for approval from Marcus. His focus is a million miles away-maybe on the field where we'll wind up either dying or killing-"and from there…" Sax trails off, his focus suddenly returning as he swivels his head around to look at all of us.

"From there," I begin quietly, meeting each of the gazes of my fellow Tributes all of whom stare boldly back at me, "we see who's really worthy to be the Victor of District two."

**Sooooo... What do ya'll think?**


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